Apartment 6A
by slyprentice
Summary: Five times Foggy Nelson met Matt Murdock during completely ordinary but surprisingly awkward circumstances and the one time he met him during a completely extraordinary but no less awkward circumstance. Matt/Foggy.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : Apartment 6A  
 **Author** : Prentice  
 **Rating** : Mature  
 **Category** : 5+1 Things, Alternate Universes, Awkwardness, First Meetings, and Eventual or Implied Romance.  
 **Fandom** : Daredevil (TV)  
 **Pairing** : Matt/Foggy  
 **Warnings** : Saucy language and awkward or embarrassing situations.  
 **Summary** : Five times Foggy Nelson met Matt Murdock during completely ordinary but surprisingly awkward circumstances and the one time he met him during a completely extraordinary but no less awkward circumstance.

* * *

The first time Foggy met the guy living in the apartment above him, he punched him in the face with a lukewarm cup of coffee. It was totally by accident – of course, it was by accident; he was a lawyer for god's sake, he didn't go around throwing punches at potentially litigious persons – but it was still really embarrassing. Especially once he saw how incredibly hot – and blind; god, he'd punched a _blind guy_ , Jesus, way to go Nelson– the guy was, what with his playfully tousled hair, scruffy chin, and now totally skewed glasses.

"Oh, shit! Fuck, I'm sorry! I – god, shit, um – are you okay, man? I so did _not_ mean for that to happen. I was just – I mean, um, here, let me," with a hasty step, Foggy dropped his now-empty coffee cup onto the ground with a mental note to pick it up later – screw that swill anyway; it was way overpriced and had a shitty to-go cup – and leaned down to pick up the guy's white cane. It was heavier than he expected, the weight surprisingly balanced despite its tapered end, but really, what did he know about blind people's canes other than that they used them?

Carefully pressing the end of said cane into one of the guy's hands, he grimaced, the flush of embarrassment still staining his skin. "I really am sorry. I didn't – uh, see – you behind me."

For a moment, an awkward silence descended between them as the other man righted his glasses, smoothed a hand over his reddened and coffee splattered cheek – oh man, that looked bad – and adjusted his loose grip on his cane. The collar of his white button down was soggy, a brownish coffee stain blaringly obvious next to his maroon necktie and light gray suit jacket. That wasn't even to mention the coffee dribbling down his stubble covered cheek and right ear lobe.

Flushing again, Foggy couldn't help but hope a hole would open up beneath him – or above him, considering what had happened a few months back – because why did shit like this keep happening to him lately?

Last week it had been Marci and her shitty attitude, the crappy settlement in the Martinez case, and the fiery indigestion from the curry place two blocks over. Then this week the dry cleaners had "misplaced" one of his better suits, he'd lost a client to Hardman & Ross, the new defense attorneys who'd set up shop a few blocks away from where Foggy bought his coffee, and now –

He'd punched a smokin' hot blind guy. With his coffee. In the face.

He really was living the dream right now...

"It's okay," blind guy said, hand once again smoothing over his marked and damp cheek before dropping to his side. He smiled faintly, lips pulling crookedly to one side, as he gazed sightlessly over Foggy's shoulder. It was – kind of adorable. "No harm done."

"Uh, yeah," Foggy said, hand making a vague gesture to the man's already-starting-to-bruise cheek before mentally scolding himself. Hot blindguy couldn't exactly see him or his hand gestures. "Harm definitely done, dude. You're gonna look like a caffeine drenched prize fighter if that thing starts to swell."

Huffing a laugh, the man shook his head. "It won't. I'll put some ice on it when I get to my place."

"Your place – you live here?" Foggy asked startled, because he might not have lived here long – four months next Thursday, not that he was counting – but he would have noticed someone this hot. Probably wouldn't have introduced himself but he definitely would have noticed.

"Yeah, I – uh, I actually think I live above you? You're Nelson, right? Franklin Nelson?"

Blinking, Foggy nodded. Because that was a smart thing to do. _Shit_. He'd get the hang of this talking to someone who couldn't see you thing eventually. "Um, yeah, but only my mom and clients call me that. I usually go by Foggy."

"Foggy," hot guy repeated, smile deepening and becoming, if possible, even more crooked. It was so freaking adorable. "I'm Matt. Matt Murdock."

"Nice to meet you, Matt Murdock. I'm – um, did I mention I was sorry for the whole punching you in the face thing?"

Another huff of laughter and the guy – Matt – grinned. "You might have mentioned something about that, yeah, and it's nice to meet you too Foggy. Even if you did punch me."

Blushing, Foggy couldn't help but chuckle. God, this was ridiculous. It almost sounded like a punchline to a joke you told in a bar, him punching some blind dude in the face.

"Look," Foggy started hesitantly once their laughter petered out and they were once again standing in a somewhat awkward silence. "I've got to head back to the office soon – I was just swinging by here to pick up some paperwork I forgot this morning – but if you're free this evening, I'd really like to take you for a drink." Blush deepening, Foggy added hastily, "I mean, because I owe you. For the punching and the," he gestured vaguely, again, _shit_ , "the caffeine shower."

Crooked smile still in place, Matt shook his head, hand lifting to prod gently at his bruised cheek. It was somewhat dry now, though the coffee on his shirt was still wet and clinging. "It was an accident, Foggy. You don't owe me anything but," head tilting slightly, he shifted on his feet, cane tapping softly against the sidewalk. "As long as you promise not to punch me with it, I wouldn't say no to a drink."

"Awesome," Foggy blurted, stomach clenching as he rocked slightly on his heels. "That's awesome. I'll pick you up at eight or, well, you live here so I'll just– "

"Apartment 6A," Matt cut in smoothly, lips twitching. "I'll see you at eight, Foggy."

"Yeah – um, until eight," Foggy replied, stooping to pick-up his discarded coffee cup. It, much like his companion, was still damp. "I'll see you then."

"See you," Matt agreed.

Swallowing, Foggy nodded and turned, the soft scratch of Matt's cane dragging against pavement making his stomach clench in giddy anticipation as he hailed a cab. Eight o'clock really couldn't come soon enough. He just had to get through the rest of the day, somehow. Had to focus on work and –

Foggy cursed.

God _dam_ mit.

He'd completely forgotten his paperwork again!


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings for gross bodily fluids and elbow-jabs. :)

* * *

 **2.**

As far as Foggy was concerned this was all Karen's fault. There really was no other explanation. After all, she was the one who had insisted they go out for drinks after work– "C'mon, Foggy, you know you want to, especially after dealing with that asshole from Lieberman & Zach; ugh, _god_ , I swear if he had called me 'sweetheart' one more time I would have kicked him in the balls" – and then promptly abandoned him when they got there.

Okay, maybe not promptly since she had actually had a couple of drinks with him before leaving. Not that he could blame her. He probably would have abandoned himself too if he had a hot girlfriend waiting for him at home like she did.

Still, though, it was her fault – and he was going to make her pay for it.

A lot.

A _lot_ a lot.

Because, _gross_ , some drunk had just vomited all over his new shoes, the woman next to him, in an attempt to get away from said drunk, had just dumped her drink into his lap, and somehow still managed to elbow-jab him in his right eye hard enough that he could already feel it swelling.

That wasn't to mention the arraignment hearing he had to get to in the morning. Now with what would be an epically swollen black eye. Great, just great. He was going to _kill_ Karen for this.

She was the shittiest best friend and employee he could ever ask for. Period. Full stop. She sucked.

Hand carefully cradling his eye – holy _fuck_ , what the hell did that woman have for elbows, _nun chucks_? – Foggy awkwardly shuffled off his bar stool, grimacing when his shoes squelched and the last bit of icy margarita in his lap slid slowly to the floor.

Dead. Karen was dead. Her girlfriend was too. The both of them, they were going to be –

"Here," a voice said from beside him, a vaguely white bar towel thrust into his field of vision.

Blinking in surprise – that was a mistake, god his eye hurt – Foggy turned, shoes squishing softly as he took in the man standing beside him. Dark haired and scruffy, he was – kind of ridiculously good looking. Especially for this place.

Also, possibly blind, going by the tinted shades and white cane. Unless it was some sort of weird fashion statement. Foggy doubted it, though. Blind guy chic wasn't really a thing as far as he knew.

"Thanks," he muttered as he took the towel, weirdly grateful that Mr. Ridiculously Good-Looking couldn't see how very, very gross he was right now. Did he mention that he was gross? Because he was. He really, _really_ was.

He had vomit soaking into his socks for god's sake.

"It probably won't do much good," Mr. Good-Looking acknowledged, tone apologetic as he shifted closer to the bar. It was mostly vacant now, no one wanting to get too close to the drunk a couple of guys were prying off the floor or the pool of vomit he'd left behind. Foggy didn't blame them; he didn't want to be near him either.

"Better than nothing," Foggy sighed, wiping at his pant leg. It didn't do much good. Most of the margarita had already melted; soaking into the fabric and making it look like he'd pissed himself. A lot.

Great, this was exactly what he needed. A crotch and pant leg that looked like he'd pissed all over it. Not to mention the vomit smell. Finding a cab willing to take him home tonight was going to be fun…

"God, this sucks," Foggy mumbled absently, giving up on the trouser leg. It was a lost cause anyway. "I should have never agreed to go out tonight. No, screw that; I should have never gotten out of bed this morning."

A small huff of laughter and Foggy glanced up, eye throbbing. Mr. Good-Looking was still there, cane propped against his own body as he leaned against the bar. A smile, crocked and not a little endearing played at the corners of his mouth.

Foggy kind of hated him for it. A little. A _little_ little, because, _jesus_ , that face could be considered a lethal weapon and now he had to bring a smile into the mix while Foggy was standing here smelling of vomit-y margarita mix?

Life was not fair.

"You should probably put some ice on it," Good-Looking suggested, hand lifting to gesture vaguely at his own face. "Your eye, I mean. Before it swells too much."

"Yeah," Foggy agreed, wincing at the sudden sting in it at the mention. It was already pretty swollen, his vision just this side of blurry. "That's the plan. I just," he shifted, shoes making a sound he _never_ needed to hear again. "I'm actually slightly afraid to move."

"Ah," Good-Looking said, smile slipping into a slight grimace. "I didn't think he got you that bad. I'll just – here, let me," turning, he seemed to look sightlessly over the bar towards the bartender. "Hey Josie, could you give us a trash bag and some napkins?"

Head tilting, Foggy watched as the woman behind the bar nodded and leaned down, rummaging beneath the counter before coming up a few seconds later with a black bin liner and a stack of cheap paper napkins. She slid them down the bar, Good-Looking catching them easily. Foggy blinked; even with eyesight, he wouldn't have caught them so easy.

"One of the boys will clean up the mess when you're done," Josie said, before turning away, a bottle of whiskey already in hand as she turned towards the other end of the bar and the woman who'd just saddled up to it.

"Her sons," supplied Good-Looking when Foggy didn't say anything, the strap of his cane sliding up his wrist as he unrolled the trash bag. "Or, well, I say sons. They're really just regulars who Josie's taken a shine to."

Eyebrows rising, Foggy shook his head. "Come here often I take it?"

Another smile, this one slightly wider than the last. "Sometimes. The city's tried to shut it down a half a dozen times but I helped Josie with the liens so sometimes she lets me drink free."

Head shaking again, Foggy couldn't help but give the guy a quick one-eyed glance over. He didn't look the type to come here, especially with the suit and tie. But then again –

"Wait, you're a lawyer?"

Shaking out the trash bag so it would open, good-looking guy nodded. "Yeah, I just bought an office space a few blocks away. It isn't much but I got it for a decent price. It was one of the building that was damaged during the –"

"Wait," Foggy interrupted. "You're Murdock?"

Pausing, the other man frowned. "Yes, I'm Matt Murdock? Is that a problem?"

"What? No!" Foggy sputtered, hand lifting in a sign of peace. That was utterly useless because the guy was blind. Right. "It's just, my friend – secretary – my friend-secretary, Karen. She was telling me about you. Or," he shifted, shoes squelching. "Of you, anyway. Our office isn't far from your office and she was –"

"Scouting out the competition?" Murdock – Matt – supplied, smile back in place.

"Not," Foggy hedged. "Exactly. It was more of the 'I told you, you should have bought that place' variety of telling. One of the drawbacks of having your best friend work for you, I guess."

Smile growing, Matt laughed. It was a nice sound. One that Foggy kind of hoped he could get out of him again.

"I guess so," Matt agreed, before gesturing vaguely towards Foggy's shoes with the trash bag. "Put those in here. You can use the napkins if you need to."

Nodding, Foggy did just that. Grabbing a handful of napkins, he carefully settled against his bar stool as he leaned down to gingerly pull off his shoes and socks – oh god, this was disgusting, they were _moist_ – and drop them into the trash bag Matt was kindly holding open for him. He wished he could wash his feet off – even with the napkins, he knew they were going to feel dirty until he got some soap and warm water on them – but didn't want to risk it.

Vomit was one thing, but vomit and urine? Yeah, there was no way in hell he was going to put himself through that. Not ever.

"So now you know my name," Matt prompted when Foggy dropped the last of the soiled napkins into the bag and took it from him. Hastily, he tied it closed. "Mind if I get yours?"

"Oh," Foggy started, flushing. He'd forgotten he hadn't said. "Um, I'm Franklin. Franklin Nelson, but my friends call me Foggy and you, my handsome new friend, are definitely my – uh, new friend."

Grinning, Matt laughed again, teeth flashing between his parted lips. God, even those were attractive. How the hell did he even _do_ that?

"Glad to hear it, Foggy" Matt said, easing away from the bar a little. "Want me to get Josie to call you a cab? I doubt you'll want to try to get home on bare feet."

"Oh, uh, no, I mean," He grimaced, glancing down at his naked feet. They still felt damp and slightly sticky. "I don't know if a cabby would take me right now. I kind of – stink – and look like hell."

For a moment, Matt seemed to hesitate, fingers opening and closing around the end of his cane before seeming to come to a decision.

"You could come to my place," he offered. "It's not that far and you could clean up a little while you're there. I might have some slippers or something you can use."

It was Foggy's turn to hesitate. The idea was appealing, especially if Matt was telling the truth about his place being not far, and he really did want to clean-up, but –

"I promise I'm not a serial killer," Matt promised, mock solemnly.

Foggy snorted. "You're a blood-sucking lawyer. How can I trust you?"

"I'm a man of my word," Matt replied easily. "C'mon, Foggy. I'll even throw in a pair of sweatpants if you ask me nicely."

Chuckling despite himself – god, this was a terrible idea – Foggy agreed. "All right, all right, but I promise you, if you're lying, I know a good attorney."

"Funny," Matt smirked. "So do I."


	3. Chapter 3

Remember kids, hold onto the railing when descending the stairs. It'll keep you from ending up like Foggy.

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, Foggy figured falling down a flight of stairs and landing on top of your new neighbor probably wasn't the worst thing that could happen on a Monday. It probably wasn't the best either – yeah, okay, it wasn't the best – but he was trying to look on the bright side. If there was a bright side, which he really didn't think there was because – jesus fucking christ – that had hurt, kind of a lot, and he was totally going to be feeling it for a long while – oh, and also, he was pretty sure he'd just killed his neighbor.

Only not, because the guy was like, not groaning exactly, but whining, maybe? Or, no, not whining, but more wheezing? Definitely wheezing. A long drawn out wheezing, as though Foggy had knocked every bit of breath the guy ever had in his body out of him.

It kind of made Foggy want to die a little.

"Oh my god," he groaned, clambering as fast as he could off the guy. Which, really, wasn't that fast because the other man might have broken his fall but that hadn't stopped him from slamming his hands, knees, and right shoulder against the landing. "Oh fuck, shit, ow, um, fuck! God, uh, man, I'm so freaking sorry! Are you all right? I hope you're all right. Please tell me you're all right!"

A soft wheezing cough and then a choked: "I'm all right."

Foggy winced. That hadn't sounded all right. Not all right at all.

"Dude," he said, gaze sweeping over the guy. He looked a little dazed, his eyes unfocused and – oh – oh shit. He was blind. Foggy had just mowed down a blind guy. Who was also kind of hot. Shit. "You're bl – ! Uh, I mean, you don't sound all right."

Another wheeze, another cough, and blind guy grimaced, unfocused eyes rolling a little in their sockets as he rolled a little to one side, suit-and-tie clad body curling in on itself a little before straightening. "I'm all right," he rasped again, another cough rattling out of him before he cleared his throat and repeated. "I'm all right. Just got the wind –" cough " – knocked out of me. Are you all right?"

"I'm, um, I'm good," Foggy replied, because surprisingly he was. He had some bruises, sure, and they were going to hurt like a bitch later, and he was pretty sure his body was going to hate him for at least a while because he wasn't as young as he used to be but, for the most part, he was fine. His pride on the other hand – yeah, he was pretty sure that would never recover, because he'd just used a hot blind guy to break his fall.

Jesus, his life – and luck – sucked big time.

"Are you sure you're – whoa, wait," Foggy started, hastily shuffling forward and curling bruised fingers around the guy's surprisingly firm shoulder as he slowly tried to sit up, his hair rumpled and slightly adorable looking. Not that Foggy was going to notice that sort of thing at a time like this. Because he wasn't. "Not so fast, buddy. I hit you pretty hard. You could have a concussion or something."

"I don't," blind guy assured – or, well, tried to, because saying it in a voice like that – all rough and wheezy – wasn't really that convincing. "I didn't hit my head but –" for a moment, he groped blindly around his body, "do you see a pair of glasses around anywhere? They must have gotten knocked off when we ran into each other."

Flushing – because, way to go, Nelson – Foggy glanced around, wincing when he finally spotted them – and a white cane – sitting an inch or two away from the bottom of the stairs. From what Foggy could see, the cane was fine. The glasses on the other hand…

"I'm really sorry, man," he apologized, cheeks hot with mortification as he retrieved them. As he'd thought, the cane was fine, but the glasses. They had a huge splintering crack on one side, the red lens spider webbed irrevocably. "They broke. But," he added hurriedly. "I'll buy you some new ones. I swear."

Hand lifting to drag through his still adorably tousled hair, the guy shook his head slightly. "It's okay. I think I have a spare pair in my apartment that should work." For a moment, he hesitated, lips pulling down into a vaguely uncomfortable grimace as he shifted, legs shuffling against the floor. "Is – uh, did my cane survive at least?"

Blush intensifying – god, this was just so, so, embarrassing, not to mention awkward – Foggy nodded before cringing at himself. Blind guy, Guy. "Yeah, um, sorry. I nodded. Your cane's good. Here, I'll just," pushing himself to his feet – Christ that hurt – Foggy hooked the cane's strap around his own wrist before carefully reaching down to help the other man to his feet as well. "Let me help you up."

Once done and after he was sure the guy wasn't a lot more hurt than he was letting on, Foggy pressed his cane into his hand.

"Here you go, buddy. I really am sorry about all this. I, well," Foggy paused, tongue wetting his dry lips distractedly as he watched the guy switch his cane to his other hand and awkwardly try to adjust his crooked tie and wrinkled shirt and suit-jacket. Damn, he really was attractive, especially with all that delightfully tousled hair, his scruffy chin, and disheveled suit. "Uh, I sort of lost my footing coming down the stairs and…"

"Fell?" The man prompted, vague grimace turning into a concerned frown, head tilting. "Are you sure you're all right? That was a hell of a fall. Nothing's broken, right? You didn't hit your head?"

Shaking his head – because the guy could totally see that, right – Foggy reassured him. "No, I'm good. Just a little banged up. You – um, you kind of broke my fall." He paused a beat. "Thanks for that."

Huffing a soft laugh, the guy cracked a smile. It was – really nice. Like, super nice. Foggy kind of wanted to bottle it. "You're welcome, I think. Seriously, though, you're sure you're all right? We hit each other pretty hard."

Again, Foggy shook his head. Crap. "Seriously, I'm fine. It takes more than that to keep a Nelson down."

Nodding, Blind guy's smile widened. Yeah, totally bottle worthy. "Good to know. So, um, Nelson–?"

"Oh! Um," Foggy shuffled, side aching a bit. "Franklin. Franklin Nelson, but you can call me Foggy. Everybody does."

"Foggy," the other man repeated, hand flexing around his cane. It was a weirdly suggestive gesture, one that made Foggy kind of want to watch him do it again – and again. And maybe one more time. Because Foggy was apparently a pervert. With a hot blind guy with a cane fetish. Obviously. "I'm Matt. Matt Murdock."

"Nice to meet you, Matt, even if I did kind of," Foggy made a vaguely flappy gesture with his hand that really shouldn't have hurt but did because maybe he had hurt something a little worse than he first thought. Which was just great. Paperwork was going to be fun. "Tried to use you as a bowling pin. Sorry about that."

Smile dragging slightly to one side, Matt snorted softly. "It's really okay, Foggy. I'm just glad you're okay."

"Yeah," Foggy agreed, "me too. I – um, look, I know I already said I'm sorry a few times – and I really really am – but uh, can I help you to your apartment or something? I really feel like crap about all this. I mean, I already owe you some new shades and maybe a coffee or something but is there anything I can do for you right now?"

"Well," Matt began, voice dragging the word out slowly, like he wasn't entirely sure what he wanted to say. "I wouldn't say no to some help to my apartment. I mean," he lifted his cane somewhat, "I can get there myself if you have somewhere you need to be but I think we could both use a drink – and an ice pack."

As if on cue, Foggy's shoulder and wrist ached, fingers and knees echoing in sympathy. Yeah, yeah, an ice pack sounded really good about now. As did spending some more time in Matt's company.

"You're on," he replied, shifting on his feet when Matt grinned. God, forget the bottle, Foggy wanted that thing fresh, every day, possibly for the rest of his life. "What's your apartment number?"

"Apartment 6A," Matt supplied, hand reaching out blindly – tentatively – until it bumped into Foggy's upper arm. Carefully, he dragged it down until his fingers settled into the crook of Foggy's elbow. "On the corner."

Swallowing, Foggy cleared his throat, nodded, and cleared it again. Right. "Right. Um," hand hesitantly curling over Matt's own, Foggy gently guided the man towards his brand new nemesis – the stairs. "Let's go."


End file.
